


the remains of honest men

by Elisye, idaate



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-10-24 02:13:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10732026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisye/pseuds/Elisye, https://archiveofourown.org/users/idaate/pseuds/idaate
Summary: [ MAJOR NDRV3 SPOILERS ]Life is no fairytale, but there are ways to get there.You just have to prick your finger on a spinning wheel and fall asleep forever. Whether that means death or dreams, the luck of the roulette will have to decide - but either way, the ending for everyone is a multitude of grey. Not like the neatly-checkered pattern of a scarf that doesn’t exist in reality, unless Ouma decides to visit Shirogane later and ask her to sew one for him. Unless he decides to take that sort of mindless step, trying to ignore the flash of pitiful understanding on her face as her eyes drift towards a monitor playing out oblivious, happy little things, the two of them rewinding memories far in the background.Unless he decides that. Which he likely won’t, because nothing says you lost better than a memory of had-been and could-have been..Corpses breathe, and the living continue to dream.





	1. daydreaming into verisimilitude

 

If you had to ask someone what raccoons are like, the likely and proper answer should be soft and troublesome.

Look at them. Raccoons are the sweetest-looking things, aren't they?

Something of a critter too. Rummaging through garbage cans at seven in the evening, dashing past flickering street lights into cramped concrete alleyways, like there's something still worth scavenging for - even though this is a city full of humans, toxicity and smoke in two different variations, and nothing actually left to look for.

Ouma takes one small breath. Exhale. Inhale.

He used to like raccoons, apparently.

 _Apparently,_ because his memories are a jumbled fuzz of somethings and otherthings, images of black and white ceilings intersecting with faint warm laughter - things that don’t really exist, never have existed, and yet his sedative-colored brain consistently fails to let go of this one illogical notion. Even though, the haze aside, there’s this murmuring little part of him that can somehow, beyond all means, think clearly. As clearly as one can get when sedated at least.

He should probably wonder why he feels sedated at all. Or why he even knows he’s sedated as opposed to sleepy or tired or mind-numbingly, skull powdered to death and non-functioning, the last of which was the case in what feels like eons ago but isn’t. Probably.

Probably. One more breath, he tells himself. Then maybe he should stop breathing and see if he wakes up in yomi for real?

His own joke makes him laugh, earning a curious glance from the nurse rifling through the papers on their clipboard. They’ve been saying a few things the whole while, something about how he’s come out of the _Danganronpa_ simulation relatively better than expected, considering he was crushed to death - fine details like when the other participants can visit him, his meal schedule, how a doctor will later set him on a physiotherapy course to get his motor nerves to remember that they can still function and he isn’t really dead dead dead.

Despite everything.

The nurse finishes their report, pausing, hesitating. “Is there anything you need as of now?”

Ouma blinks at nothing, manages to process the question, and slowly shakes his head without another word. Relief pours through their face - at least it seems so from the corner of his eye - before they give one big bright smile. The coherent part in his head wonders if they worked in hospitality, before becoming a nurse here. “Great! Expect to see me again in a few days when another participant drops out. There’s enough space in your room for two patients, so we’ll be bringing them here.”

With that said, they leave. Ouma quietly figures, nah, they didn’t work in hospitality after all - and feels his eyelids droop closed for good.

 

.

 

 _“Ow_ — ouchie!” Ouma bites his lip before a genuine cry of pain can come from his lips as a particularly thick book lands on his toes, twisting it into a childish plea, but it’s a bit too late, it seems.

Saihara looks up from his book (about raccoons, coincidentally - Ouma doesn’t really know why _raccoons_ are a subject that one needs to know in a killing game, but, then again, it’s not like there was a how-to guide on how to get through a killing game in the first place), a deep furrowed frown on his face. “Ouma…”

“Mmm, yes, my beloved Saihara?”

“Did you play…” His eyes dance down from Ouma’s hands to his feet, and Saihara closes the book on raccoons. “I was going to say the knife game, but hopefully you’ve learned that it isn’t something you should be playing anymore after you cut yourself.”

“Why would I stop _then?_ Shouldn’t I work on perfecting the craft?” Ouma leans down to pick up his own book. Unlike Saihara’s interests in procyonids, Ouma had decided to pick up an encyclopedia on different religions; he could never be _too_ much on the nose, after all, not when Angie was as dead as a doornail, just like Shinguji and Tenko with a sword between her neck and a hard place. A pity, to be sure, but at least there was less competition, right?

(competition for _what?_ the only competition that ouma could think of was the mastermind, and they slipped out of his fingers like a greasy fistful of peanuts)

“I don’t think you should be touching that craft at _all,_ if you can even call it a craft.” Saihara points out. “How impressive can a talent of Super High-School Level...uh, I suppose you would call it _knife gamer_ or knife game player be, really? Seems like it would do more harm than good.”

“I guess it _would_ just be a subsection of Harukawa’s talent, and being an assassin seems like _toooo_ much of a hassle! Like, killing people? That kind of thing sounds like I’d have too many haters on my back too soon, after all! All those vendettas against me...I’d feel _totally_ threatened all the time, constantly looking over my shoulder and stuff! I want to keep myself nice and toasty and safe all the time, thank you very much.” Ouma places the encyclopedia back where he found it and pats it gently. Maybe he’ll read it another time, when he’s not microsleeping his way through a killing game.

“...you say that, but you’re not opposed playing a game where it’s very likely that you’ll lose one of your fingers or even your whole hand if you slip up.”

“Waah, you’re no fun, Saihara! Maybe I was just lying, and I _want_ to lose my whole hand! Be a martyr!” Ouma sticks out his tongue, and Saihara’s mouth thins into a line.

“I wouldn’t like that.” He says quietly, and Ouma doesn’t understand why his heart always _flutters_ when Saihara says dumb stuff of that caliber. He opens his mouth to say something as a rebuttal, but Saihara’s already straightened out of his seat.

“Iruma was proposing something earlier..about a virtual reality, or something, right?” He notes. “Perhaps we should check it out.”

Ouma’s mind skits and skates around the phrase ‘virtual reality’ for a reason he can’t quite place, but he simply smiles and nods along.

 

.

 

The clock is broken.

It’s one of those old, traditional ones - round and glassy, numbers engraved in cursive black. An elegant choice compared to the usual digital ones that flash sharp red and come with a changeable voice feature sometimes. Were it still functioning, Ouma would have wondered where the staff had the budget and thought to put something so classically outdated into a room with slightly cracked tiling and the faintest stench of a hospital.

But it’s broken, so it’s fitting. Even though the needles are still ticking, making soft noises that both distract and blend into the monotony. The clock had been wonderfully keeping time, but until the last moment, really, it’s now broken - no matter how much a person can even attempt to dilute time, a few days will never turn out to be just a few hours. Unless they were lying, but from the looks of it, the nurse was probably just misinformed to an extent.

So he can’t blame them - in fact, there’s something like a twinge of pity for the swath of doctors and nurses who swing open the door seven hours after his first and previous visit, carrying in a frustrated, yelling Momota as they try to put him down on the next-door bed without being potentially punched in the face. It’s easy to note that one of the accompanying nurses already has the faint outlines of a bruise forming on their cheek.

But considering how they were in virtual reality for what’s been a rather extended period of time, Momota’s struggle doesn’t last very long. Within minutes, they’ve restrained him to the bed, promising under his yelling that they’ll be back to explain the situation properly once he’s had some time to cool down. Which is easier said than done, because the yelling only gets louder once the door’s closed behind them and the silence makes every single syllable echo across the walls.

At least Ouma isn’t the one in restraints at the moment. That’s one blessing to find here, though whether it compares to perhaps lasting ear damage is another thing.

“ _Get back here!_ I’m not done tal—!”

“Momota,” Ouma begins cheerily, though it falls strangely flat. Maybe because he’s thirsty? “The room’s soundproof.”

“Huh?”

The boy swivels his head in the other’s direction, eyes going wide in a split second or two of them. “Wh— What—?! The hell, you, you should be—!”

“Maybe if you stayed calm when you woke up, you would have learned why I’m here - even though I died and all.” For a bare minute or so, he somehow finds it in himself to smile ever so widely, his face hurting from the number of muscles being pulled and twisted. The utter hypocrisy of this, _hah_ \- when Ouma first woke up, although he hadn’t accomplished anything due to his paralysis, he was very much still capable of speech. And after all that, seeing even a little of what he had come back to—to say he had _words_ when he first woke up would be an understatement.

Nonetheless, compared to that time, his words at the moment have a real charm. Momota continues to stare, befuddled, abnormally stunned - before he turns his head up to face the ceiling. The rare quiet of that only lasts for seconds, before he starts muttering things to himself, eyes squeezed shut. “I’m dreaming. This is hell. I’m in fucking hell. That’s the only explanation.”

That’s an easy thought to identify with. But not the right answer. Ouma sighs heavily, “Really now.”

“Damn _straight!_ ” He shouts. If no one knew better, it would almost seem like he was going to cry. But they both were better than that, right?

“…Well, if you want to think that, then you can. I guess. But if it’s not a dream, and we can take everything at face value - then what is it? You might already know it.”

Nothing follows, for what seems like a long, long time. Long, because the clock is broken, and why trust time when it can’t even keep track of itself?

Really, there isn’t much to put faith into after all. Why hold out hope for miraculous news, when Momota’s here and the grand plan ruined, when the future is just so abruptly, mysteriously, too intangible to draw lines and arrows across to a predestined possibility? No, when nothing is decided, both for the good or bad, then the best strategy for preservation is this: err on the side of caution.

A fine piece of advice, even it came from false, false memories.

“…Fuck.” Momota suddenly swears, snapping his eyes open as his forehead creases and creases. There’s a spark of something grey and terrifying cast all over his face - an unsettling realisation. “I— I just— Virtual reality? Did I, I seriously signed up for this crap…? This— I’m, I’ve got to be remembering this shit wrong—“

Ouma doesn’t reply to that, doesn’t try to even interrupt the weak, rambling denials - because if he’s actually right, wouldn’t that have applied to everyone?

(is the saihara you know really saihara, then? - it’s a new thought. not a pleasant one.)

So instead, the boy decides to replace his mental stream with other unpleasant thoughts. Nothing compares, after all - and with great difficulty, pulls the thin sheets over his head a bit. “…If it helps to know, my plan didn’t account for anything like this. Seeing the afterlife, sure. Waking up to reality? Not really. That’s more insane than actually dying, y’know.”

He laughs a little, to hammer the point. The shallow amusement isn’t shared, and frankly, Ouma doesn’t know how he can still laugh at all.

Maybe it's because of how far deep things have fallen - further than what either of them could have expected, in a way.

 

.

 

A dreamless sleep is more than a blessing for Ouma, though he ends up waking up before he even realized it happened. By that time, Momota’s asleep as well, chest going up and down in gentle flutters. He’s exhausted, and frankly, Ouma doesn’t blame him - despite the fact that they had been sleeping for (days? weeks? months?) it seemed like all he wanted to do _was_ sleep some more.

In fact, he’s resolving himself to shut his eyes once again when the sound of the door swinging open reaches his ears, and he turns slightly. It’s an uncomfortable motion, what with his entire frame being wracked with cramps, but that was to be expected after laying still, there, for so long. It was normal. At least something about Ouma was.

“Oh, good morning!” The nurse smiles gently at seeing Ouma’s gaze. “Or, good afternoon, I suppose. You’re approaching the seventy-two hour mark since you’ve awakened!” They pause. “From your induced coma, of course, not since you’ve last slept, for that would only be a couple minutes. Maybe even less!”

The nurse chuckles. Ouma knows they’re just trying to be kind and lighten the mood, and he can’t fault them for that, but he’s far too tired to humor them with any more than a strained smile right now. Momota had been a different story earlier, but he doesn’t owe this nurse anything. Once the nurse realizes that Ouma has no intention of laughing along, they awkwardly clear their throat.

“You’ve been making good progress with your vitals and general recovery, so the doctors gave the go-ahead for you to leave this room, if you’d like.” They go on, “You’ll be in a wheelchair for a little while for your own safety, but you’ll be able to talk with the other participants! Those whom were eliminated before you.”

Those whom had _died._

Ouma’s fingers tighten over the sheets of his bed, heart skipping a beat at the thought of seeing them again - of seeing Toujou, Akamatsu, Angie, Gonta. It forms a small lump in his throat, though whether from fear or joy he isn’t quite sure, but he swallows it down quickly, forcing a stock photo smile onto his face (it was so much easier to do that inside the game, he realizes).

“Yeah, I’d like that.” He agrees, wincing slightly at the tone of his own voice. The nurse brightens up.

“Wonderful!” They hum. “Just give me a moment, then.”

The door swings shut behind them, and Ouma’s left in an empty room again. The ticking of the broken clock, as fitting as it was at first, was starting to get on his nerves. He stares as it, as if the sheer force of his gaze would cause it to...ah, who knows. Combust into flames? Be crushed like a can? Shredded into nothing?

Momota stirs in his sleep, and Ouma glances over. He realizes, with a small start, that he didn’t actually know how the trial had went. Yes, Momota got executed, one way or another - that much was obvious, and it didn't seem likely that everyone else had been taken out with him, so, that was a small score. Ouma’s eyes close slightly, half-lidded. It’s a bit strange, seeing Momota sleep so peacefully when he had been hacking up blood what seemed like every other minute. It’s a surreal sort of dissonance - a pleasant sort of dissonance.

He hopes Momota’s death wasn’t _too_ painful.

For the third time, the door to the room swings open accompanied by the squeaking noise of a wheelchair. Ouma faces the nurse as they wheel the chair besides his bed, pulling the brakes and smiling.

“Alrighty, then! If you don’t mind, I’m going to help you get onto here. Does that sound good?”

“Of course.” Ouma smiles back, cringing only slightly as the nurse places their arms under his, hoisting him tenderly from the bed and onto the wheelchair like he’s a doll that might break. It’s a fairly smooth procedure, and Ouma smoothes his hospital gown down with a tired tenderness once he gets settled down.

“Well, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” The nurse comments, and Ouma nods.

“I’m going now, Momota.” He calls out to the sleeping figure. “Bye bye!” He tries raising his hand to wave goodbye, but even _that_ is a process that strains him slightly. Momota isn’t awake, anyway, so of course he doesn’t respond. Ouma winces, and the nurse wheels him out of the room. The door swings shut behind them, and suddenly Ouma finds himself in a sterile linoleum hallway. There are several other people in the hallway - nurses, doctors, attendants, and they look up in mild interest at Ouma. He shifts uncomfortably underneath their gaze.

The pure cleanliness of it all brings an unpleasant taste to Ouma’s mouth, and he works his tongue around his cheek, trying to get rid of it.

The nurse leans down. “Just between you and me,” They hum, “I really thought you were going to win! I had a bunch of money placed on you and everything. Ah, well, that definitely went down the drain.”

They laugh airily, and even though Ouma is certain that they were trying  to lighten the mood, the unpleasant taste in his mouth only increases. “Where are we going?” He says instead, fingers working around the material of his gown.

“To the lobby.” The nurse supplies. “Unless you want to visit someone in particular…?” Ouma shakes his head. “The lobby is where most of the people...w-who were...also eliminated—”

“Just say ‘losers’.” Ouma cuts in, smiling. “That’s what we are, after all!”

“Right.” The nurse clears their throat and their step falters slightly. “Most of your fellow losers stay in the lobby. There are some board games and card decks, a television if you’d like to play some games - we have quite a variety! - and a second screen with a live stream of the fifty-third season of _Danganronpa._ So you can see what your fellow competitors are up to, hmm? Place a bet or two of your own?”

Ouma’s stomach flips at the thought of seeing (saihara) again, and he tries to smile. “Sounds fun.” He chirps.

“Perfect! Then, please just sit tight for a moment and we’ll before before you can blink, hmm?”

Those words must set off a switch in Ouma’s head or something, because that half-lidded and calming expression that he finds himself so often defaulting to quickly rises to the surface, his grin sinking from the typical stock photo to a lower maintenance smile. It’s that tiny action that helps him realize how tired he is, despite sleeping and sleeping and sleeping for...a while. Time didn’t exactly pass the same way in virtual reality the same way it did in real life, but, well, wasn’t that a trope that fit many things?

Like Narnia, for example, though Ouma wouldn’t consider a _killing game_ on the level of caliber of an analogy for the Bible - Ouma didn’t think that God existed in a killing game, in the form of a furry or otherwise - so maybe that hadn’t been the best example in the first place.

The wheels of his chair aren’t exactly of the highest quality, he realizes it now, one of them spinning wildly as the others drag in the direction he’s being pushed. The noise they create is also quite infuriating, actually, now that he’s made a note of it, the rubber wheel polishing the floor with an unpleasant screech. Ouma tries closing his eyes, tries ignoring it, but the loss of his sense of sight only seems to heighten his other senses and increase the noise. He bites his lip, as if _that_ will somehow help, but no.

It’s a screeching sensation that’s a bit familiar, all too familiar to the sound of a press—

“Ah, look at that!” The nurse says, cutting into Ouma’s train of thought. “We’re here.”

The wheels of the chair squeak against the ground, awkwardly shifting from the linoleum floor to the rough texture of carpet. Almost unintentionally, Ouma squeezes his eyes tight at the sensation, breathing through his nose as he realizes that—

“Oh, Ouma! Hey!”

Ouma opens his eyes, revealing to him the sight of Amami and Kaede playing an awkward game of Monopoly. Amami’s dressed in a baggy hoodie and slacks, while Kaede has a white t-shirt and maroon sweatpants on and it looks all far too _normal_ because the last time Ouma saw them, they were on the ground with a dent in their head and a rope around their neck (though in amami’s case, ouma saw his statue upside down more often than not, but, well).

“Hey.” He croaks out, cursing his throat. “It’s...been a while! You two look…”

(alive)

“—wonderful.” He decides upon.

“I’ll leave you three be.” The nurse hums. “Ouma, if you ever need me, I’m just a button click away, alright?” They motion at the little buzzer on Ouma’s armrest that he hadn’t noticed before, and he nods firmly. They walk away.

“Sheesh, Ouma, you really were quite a doozy this season!” Akamatsu hums. “I got eliminated really early so, like, sucks to suck - I really should have let Saihara take the fall for me, looking back on it - but I really thought you were going to win the ultimate experience!”

“Oh, same.” Amami chimes in. “It kinda sucks that I don’t have a ‘get-in free’ pass for next season, but, whatever. I had a good run. I could always try for mastermind? See where that gets me.” He laughs lightly, and Akamatsu slaps his knee. “What? I’m joking, _joking!_ No need to get your tits in a twist.”

Ouma giggles awkwardly, a bit off-placed by the casualness of the two of them. “So, do you guys know who the mastermind is?” It’s an awkward cut in, but Ouma’s fingers are tapping anxiously against his knee in a kind of frustration and he _needs_ to know—

(it couldn’t be saihara could it)

“It was Shirogane.” Akamatsu says, flapping her hands absentmindedly. “And _huuuu,_ let me tell you, Amami’s murder was _totally_ fucked. I didn’t even murder the kid! _Shirogane_ did!” She pouts. “Not a fun way to get eliminated.”

Ouma’s stomach does somersaults, and he tightens his fist around the cloth of his gown once more. “I can imagine.” He says tiredly, and he _wishes_ that he had noticed all the cues because wasn’t it so damn obvious that it had been Shirogane?

Amami must have noticed how exhausted he looked, because the boy wheels Ouma’s chair closer with a soft smile. “Hey, wanna play Monopoly with us?”

“Sure!” That would be nice.

Ouma concentrates on the crack in the playing board as they let him be the racecar piece.


	2. autotomy of the organized sort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ouma and Momota walk and watch a show.

Days weaving, fluttering, into fine lace - Ouma barely keeps track of the flower patterns and teardrops sewn into the hours, instead walking through the silk and the frills with a blank white and solid focus. There are fraying threads here and there, of course, some few hours where he closes his eyes and sees a portfolio of dried blood and choked bodies, but that’s to be expected. That’s to be expected, he thinks, because for all the pointless information stuffed into his head through that fake talent, it’s kind of nice to know the exact specifics of trauma. Better than he already knew it, at any rate.

These are not fanciful thoughts, but they come easily, just as much as the day when Momota gets his doctor’s approval to walk around as he pleases. His recovery, at least to this point, had gone quickly and smoothly. There’s only that relatively minor issue of how much easier it is for him to get tired, a typical symptom of the longer-running participants and their atrophied stamina, so he can’t do anything extreme—but all things with Momota are like the magic of shooting stars, so it’s a simple thing to just believe he’ll be on his best behavior and the like.

Shooting stars are illusions when people make their wishes, though, so the certainty of something even more fanciful than his thoughts, honestly, is not even worth doubting aloud. It’s just doubtful.

Case in point, when Momota suggests trying to sneak out of the facility altogether. With Ouma. So that they can pretend they went on a stroll of sorts together and just happened to get unreasonably lost. It’s a ridiculous plan, even if the least it does is waste some of the time they’re otherwise not using anyway, but the idea of disagreeing isn’t really in the cards to begin with. Not when their only window shows nothing but concrete grey and glassy buildings in the distance - not even a speck of artificial flowers or rusted greenery.

So, sometime on a cloudy afternoon, Ouma finds himself being leisurely wheeled through the medical wing, listening absently to the faint squeaks of the wheels. It’s bigger than what either of them thought it’d be, but it doesn’t have a convoluted floor design - the blending monotony of the walls might mess with a horribly weak sense of direction, though. Thankfully it’s not the case for either of them, especially Momota, so that’s helpful. What isn’t helpful is how Ouma, without much effort, ends up memorizing the general layout of the floor as they comb through it in search of an exit that doesn’t lead into the main part of the building. He doesn’t need to know that sort of detail. Not anymore. But his brain is childish and stubborn, still stupidly so, unrelenting—

It’s deafening, these ruminations. Ouma doesn’t catch it first, when Momota speaks up. “—do you remember?”

“Hm?” Ouma cranes his head to glance backwards. “Remember what?”

“Why you joined the show.” He repeats, grumbling a bit.

“Well…” In-between all these mixed up memories, released after being inhibited for so long— “If you’re asking me that, I guess you finally remembered, huh?”

“Pretty much.” His pace falters, just by a sliver of a second. A thoughtful frown graces his face, and on a perhaps sunnier, different day, Ouma would have poked fun at it. Today, besides the grey weather outside, not so much. “We all joined to win.”

“Yeah.” There’s ample space to mention how sad, how unfortunate it is - that they lost the chance of a lifetime. It came at such a cheap price, just a couple of deaths! Ouma snorts the air out of his nose.

“I wanted the usual stuff,” Momota continues. “Tons of money, being famous, all the sorta things we’d have to be born into to even try getting. But I think, I don’t know— I think I just, wanted to kill people too. The feeling of it, or some crap like that. I mean, it ain’t easy to kill someone and get off scot free in the end! You— We both know that.”

Momota’s eyes stare towards the beyond. There are no stars in the furthest reaches of space, devoid of even the mystery of black holes, and neither are there any such cosmic colors in his vision either - or so Ouma guesses. It’s a kind, almost comforting thing to see. But their fake memories and beliefs are, in the end, just that—it’s a kindness while it lasts. Wouldn’t it be nice if that were to be proved wrong, however?

Ouma swallows the instinctive giggle that threatens to burst up his throat, instead, “So, you decided to change your mind? On killing.”

“Not really? It’s not really a change than… I don’t know. Seeing what it’s like for real? It’s not like how they show it. Not really. But also it sort of is? I mean, everything happened in virtual reality, sure, but - it was real to _me_ , at least. And even now, even though I know nothing really happened—it just feels that way, still.”

Ouma stares at the pale fabric of his clothes, chewing on his lip for a moment or four of them. He thinks, he repeats - that was a kindness. It won’t last. But it’s not a kindness at all to mention that right now, so, so, he won’t. He probably never will.

There’s the sound of a clearing throat, which breaks things even again. “So? What about you?”

“…What about me?”

“What did you join for? Was it like how it was for me? Money, fame, wanting to just kill someone? Were you a fan of the show before?”

The last bit only conjures sourness. “Wasn’t a fan. Not at all.”

“Then…”

“I wanted to win, that’s true - but I didn’t go in expecting to kill anyone. I didn’t even want to.”

“That’s _insane._ ” No one needs to look at Momota’s face to figure out his expression. “It’s a killing show! Barely anyone makes it by not killing someone.”

“Well, we both learnt that in the end, didn’t we?” Ouma mutters, not with the chipper tone he half-expected himself to use - he’s finding it difficult to play-pretend to be like a star, considering there’s absolutely no point in pretending he ever liked any of this now - and sinks a bit into the wheelchair. There’s a painful silence that follows, dust yellow and iron-flavored, hanging awkwardly enough in the air that it’s almost something to regret. Almost.

They take a turn to the right, passing a directional plate on the wall saying _Ward ATQ-3_ in bold blue. An eerie light, flickering somewhere down the hallway, makes a faint buzzing noise as they wander right through - the sound is both softer and louder than what Momota ends up muttering under his breath, “So you really weren’t lying back then?”

Ouma just blinks up. There’s a curious look on the other’s face. Something like astonishment, but also, mostly… “Back when?”

“In the bay.” A pause. “When you were… explaining your plan to me.”

“Oh. Then.” It’s tempting to be vague, to say no, to say anything but the truth. Hum, giggle, let your eyes glitter with mischief and mirth faniced alike by the bored aesirs. Similar to the itch of a habit formed at eight or ten, something troublesome like chewing on your nails, and no one’s tried to be responsible enough to break you out of it. But whose habit is this, again? It’s difficult, but— “No. I… I wasn’t lying. There wasn’t a point, when I thought I was going to die for good.”

Glancing up again, there’s yet another shuffle of things - thoughts, feelings, moving by in a flash with a blink. The clearest of them that can be picked out is a new sprig of hesitation, growing slowly as Momota opens his mouth, contemplates, hesitates too long into not saying much, perhaps in that exact same order. “That’s—”

Just as the two reach the end of the hallway, a figure scrambles out from the corner with rabbit steps. Although they’re much thinner than what they looked like in the simulation, their hair paler and more of a tangled mess, it’s still easy to identify Iruma on the spot - especially when her determined expression immediately breaks apart into one full of wild caution, eyes zeroed in on the wheelchair’s occupant. Ouma, on his part, would share the sentiments, if he could find the place of mind to do so.

“Y-You’re awake?!” Her voice is shrill, a tad croaky to the end. Tired, simply - but too jumpy to crash land softly.

“Uh, um, yeah.” Momota blinks bewildered, and his grip on the handles tightens ever so slightly. Not enough for the knuckles to be pure white, but it can get there. Seeing the dead walk is surely something, but even faintly realising the blurriness between the living and the dead - how off-putting must it be, while breathing this stale air? “Didn’t you know?”

“You— Do you think?” Red, sweet anger, flushes across her cheeks. Her hands fidget, open and close repeatedly, like she isn’t sure what she’s doing here with herself, let alone in this very conversation. “Those, them, those dickhead doctors and shits—they haven’t let me leave my room ever since I woke up, and it’s been ages! Do you think pacing keeps me _happy?_ I’m just so, _ugh—_ ”

They’re stuck there. The sheer lack of things to say, or at least it seems so - watching Iruma flounder like a goldfish broken off from the school, violently stretching out the hem of her hospital gown, is barely worth smiling at. Not even in politeness. Eventually, the blonde just swallows nothing, shakes her head furiously, and gives the pair a reluctant but thinly curious look. Though her eyes refuse to wander too close to make proper eye contact, instead lingering on other places like the dull shine of the floor and their feet.

“What about you guys?” She asks in a depressed mutter. “This ain’t where your room is, that I’m pretty darn sure of.”

“We’re, well…” Momota scratches the back of his head. “Don’t go telling on us, but we’re trying to find a way out of this place. Not out of the wing, but like - out.”

“…You think I’m gonna tell when I’m in the same spot as you?”

“Same spot?”

She just waves a hand around, a gesture, phrasing, “Weren’t you listening just now? I’m not supposed to be out here! Gotta be holed up in my room like some god damned damsel in distress for my mental stability, or whatever the fuck the reason was. Pretty darn stupid anyway. Like hell I’m going to be cooped up in _there_ when we were all cooped up in hell in that simulation!”

Frustration almost growls itself through her teeth. As Iruma threads her hand through her hair with rough waves and jerks, looking only mildly horrified when a few roots are pulled out, Momota and Ouma pass each other a blank look each. The degree to which their thought-stuffed cognition showed, on the other hand, varied between the two. Still, although it was hard for either to ascertain without words, their ideas seemed to be the same - for a short time, having three people on this foolhardy trip probably wouldn’t hurt.

It might even be fun. Seeing which lasts longer - a nonsensical cooperation in light of everything that happened, or the amount of noise they’d probably make with Iruma for extra background banter.

(Rather surprisingly, it’s the former. Fooling around near a fire exit helped in that aspect.)

 

.

 

A week and a bit feels a whole lot longer than it probably is, but the broken clock keeps fairly broken time as Ouma spends his days playing a card game that uses both the traditional deck and several Uno cards. Awkward talks with Momota that are an attempt at normalcy fill up his time more than anything else, though sometimes he catches Amami or Akamatsu or _someone_ walking through the halls. Despite this, he’s yet to make contact with most, and he wonders if they even know he’s (died? awakened?).

He’s just playing another mindless talk with Momota, if all the murder and victim duos are sharing rooms as well and musn’t that be unhealthy because God knows that Angie and Tenko and Shinguji would inevitably have the worse of times, but actually they’re not a duo at all they’re a strange trio and perhaps Shinguji has a room all to himself, then, but the door opens and in steps the nurse.

“The sixth trial is beginning!” They say when Momota and Ouma’s only response is to stare at them expectantly. “Would either of you like to watch…? It’s highly recommended you do, but you’re not required. Some of the other people who were—” The nurse seems to remind themself of Ouma’s words, and corrects themself, _“losers,_ the other _losers_ are in the lobby. Where you’ll be watching the sixth trial, if you choose to.”

Ouma shares a glance with Momota, and the phony astronaut almost speaks before Ouma cuts in himself. “Sure!” He hums around the lump in his throat that he was probably just imagining. “Sounds like fun.” Except it doesn’t.

“Wonderful!” The nurse leans in, as if to grab Ouma’s wheelchair, but Momota stands up very pointedly from his bed.

“I’ll be pushing Ouma around, thanks very much.” Ouma isn’t sure whether to be surprised or bemused by Momota’s outburst, but the nurse is quite obviously the former. They pause, and for a moment, seem as if they’re going to push Ouma’s wheelchair whether the boy likes it or not, but to his relief, the nurse lets go.

“Suit yourself.” They say, and walk out of the room. “I trust you can find your own way there? What with your wanderings and all that.”

Ouma doesn’t attempt to stop the snort as the nurse closes the door behind them. Momota walks over to the shorter boy’s side, placing his hands on the handles of the wheelchair.

“Mm, maybe I wanted the nurse to push me?” Ouma pouts. “After all, I’ve had quite enough of your greasy hands. And hair. They both get kinda gross after a while!”

Momota quirks an eyebrow and lifts his hands off the wheelchair, as if in surrender. “Forgive me, your _majesty.”_ He huffs. “I’ll make sure to pedicure my nails and shit before I get near you again.”

“Please and thank you.” Ouma hums, and pointedly ignores the noise in his brain that arises at the words ‘your majesty’. “Now, be a dear and take me to my destination, alright? I’m a busy boy, after all. Not much free time.”

Momota laughs outright at that, because the slots in their life filled with ‘things that need to be done and urgently’ are far shorter than any cicada’s lifespan. “Whatever fits your fucking fancy, then.”

“Language!”

Nonetheless, they find themselves in too-clean hallways once again. The only difference from now and their usual wanderings is that their are neither nurses nor the sounds of them inside rooms, and an idea catches Ouma’s attention. He cranes his head backwards, towards Momota. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

“If no one’s watching, then, do you want to go…” Ouma lowers his voice to a stage whisper, like he’s telling Momota the biggest secret ever, even bigger than ‘hey guess what I lied about being the Mastermind just as I’ve lied about everything else what a surprise except not’. “... _fast?”_

“...fast?”

“Fast.” Ouma nods in confirmation, refocusing his gaze down the hallway. “Like, super fast. Sonic speed fast.”

There’s a pause from up above. “Okay, yeah, fuck it. Gotta go fast.” And just like that, Momota’s kicking up something behind him and Ouma has to press his head back against the headrest in order not to get whiplash. Stars dance in front of his eyes and despite himself, there’s a laugh building in the back of his throat as his fingers tighten around the armrests of the wheelchair, not of fear or yet another nasty laugh but a laugh of _joy._

Moments later, there’s something like a pressure on the back of the chair as Momota goes from running on the ground to standing on the back of the wheelchair (on what? some sort of basket, that was there? ouma never really had a chance to look, after all) and then he’s cackling too, their laughs joining together in a pleasant cacophony and Ouma is surprised at how much fun such a silly action can elicit.

They’re coasting down the hallway, even when the dimmed lights of the lobby comes into view and Momota mutters “ha ha oh _shit”_ and swerves and they crash into one of the walls near the entrance of the lobby, causing Ouma to shake in his seat and giggle madly.

“Oh my God.” He wheezes. “Kill me a second time, why don’t you?”

“Sure, why don’t you.” Says someone that has Tenko’s voice, and looking up, Ouma realizes that they’re the last ones to arrive. Their nurse frowns disapprovingly and opens their mouth, as if to unleash yet another volley of complaints, but closes it just as quickly as they decide against it. Good for them, Ouma guesses.

In fact, there are a couple of nurses are there, because of _course_ there are, along with a whole group of walking dead. Though, some of them were sitting on couches, but the point was there nonetheless. A few spare a glance at Ouma, but most have their gazes focused on the screen. Despite Tenko’s words, her expression is surprisingly relaxed, and she waves a hand as Ouma’s eyes meet hers. “That came out wrong. Apologies and all that.” She hums, a tentative smile on her lips. It’s a welcome enough sight, and Ouma returns the favor.

“Apology accepted!”

The awkwardness in the air can be cut with a knife, and he does everything to avoid (gonta’s) gaze as Momota mocks the sounds of a vehicle backing up, wheeling Ouma next to an empty plush chair and then sitting down next to him, a hand on the smaller boy’s shoulder. A glance everyone’s way turns out that hey, you didn’t need to avoid gazes in the first place, after all. You’re getting too big of a head for such a tiny frame. It’s not like many of the survivors (if they could be called that) were paying much attention to him, anyway - maybe some other time, but at the moment, their minds were occupied with the screen mounted up on the wall. After a second’s hesitation and figuring he’s got less than nothing to lose, Ouma looks at the wall as well.

 _“You’ve got that wrong!”_ Says Saihara, and then all of the quips on Ouma’s lips die.

It’s so, _so_ strange seeing Saihara on the screen, seeing him talk with a determinedness that reminds Ouma of when he (chose momota over him? called him pathetic? refused to join his side even under the threat of death?). Apparently, his sentiments are shared by those who sit besides him because Momota’s breath catches and his fingers tighten on Ouma’s shoulder.

“Hey, watch it!” Ouma stage whispers, if only to keep himself (unsuccessfully) distracted from Saihara’s face. He only feels a little bit guilty when Momota flinches and removes his hand, muttering a quiet apology. The weight is missed, but when he sees Shirogane dressed as Junko Enoshima (ah, who was that? fragments of memories swirled around in ouma’s head, and he tried reaching out to grasp them only to have them evaporate like mist before his fingers could even brush them. he sits back) on the screen he no longer brings himself to care.

He knows the process vaguely, knows that only two of the five people standing around those podiums would be able to stay in there forever - four, actually, since Shirogane didn’t really count. Maybe even three, but who knew what was up with the robot? Something tells Ouma that he knew more about Kiibo, once upon a time, but at the moment he simply draws up tiresome blanks. That looked like it was going to become a pattern. Joy.

The point in case being, though, that Saihara had a fifty-fifty chance of survival, of winning. There was at least a fifty-fifty chance that he would die and lose or become a sacrifice and meet up with Ouma again, even if it was only for a little while - and wasn’t that selfish? Ouma shudders, and the whole courtroom situation must have triggered something in him because he finds that default, stock photo grin appearing up once again.

“Uhm, hey.” Momota speaks up to a nurse that isn’t the same one that plagues their room. “Do you have any idea how long this shit could last, or…?”

“Oh, the usual.” They say with a dismissive wave of their hand, like Ouma knows what the ‘usual’ is, right. “I’d say...five hours? Maybe six, seven, if things get particularly rowdy? Which they might, since we’ve got _quite_ a few people still alive and all that.”

“And all that.” Momota repeats it like he knows, nods tensely, and looks at the screen. Ouma doesn’t know how he’s supposed to last five hours of Saihara talking.

But no matter. He’s as good as dead to Saihara, he reminds himself - _literally_ dead, _literally_ under the impression that he perished under a hydraulic press, a display for some youtuber to put in slow motion and point out the exact moment that he bursts at the seams, blood and gore and teeth and hair and bones and _everything_ getting crushed, the whole great package. Dead as a doornail dead, a smushed doornail at that, and Ouma has to close his eyes and steel himself for a moment before he flickers away from the screen and towards the sea of faces to his left, to his fellow _losers._

Akamatsu and Amami are there, albeit not as side by side as Ouma had expected them to be. Akamatsu has boredom painted on her face, and it takes Ouma a second to figure out if she’s just faking it because how can _anyone_ be so unmoved (he’s a hypocrite for saying that, he knows, but he decides that she’s not faking it) by such a display. Amami’s more enthralled, however, one arm slung across the length of his waist and the other dancing on his chin, bottom lip curled in and eyes narrowed just a bit with that tired, thinly suppressed grin that Ouma’s seen whenever they play something that’s not Monopoly. But he’s clearly enjoying it, so good for him, whatever, Ouma didn’t care anyway.

He looks at them all, checking off the mental checklist - there’s Hoshi and Angie on a couple of the fold up chairs, Toujou’s got her hair in a ponytail and Shinguji’s got his in a braid, Iruma’s as frail a figure as the last time Ouma caught a glimpse of her, and Gonta is...asleep, so Ouma doesn’t need to worry about him. Not now, at the very least. Tenko, despite her remarks from beforehand, has her attention focused on the screen - or no, Ouma corrects himself, has her attention focused on _Yumeno._ Makes sense, he reasons. He’s doing the same thing after all, sort of, with Saihara.

That thought occurs to him and very pointedly, Ouma closes his eyes. If nothing else, he can cruise out the next couple hours with a nap. He was on some sort of medication, right? And didn’t medication make you tired? Or at the very least, certain kinds did. Ouma hoped that he was on the kind of medication that made you tired, then, at the very least for the sake of these moments. Momota says some off handed jab at Shirogane, someone else laughs.

Her voice, just like all the others in the screen, screeches out some villainous remark that sounds too much like something Ouma would say for his own liking. He wonders exactly how much of what was an act - had she meant it when she was kind _here,_ did she plan for something so terrible _there,_ how much of this all had she enjoyed - but the thoughts begin to hurt his head when he dwells on it too long, and on the screen Shirogane says _“Like you all would understand, anyways!”_

Ouma never understood, he realizes, it never clicked for him no matter how many hours he stared sleep deprived at a whiteboard that ding dong, it was Shirogane, big red circle and tons of random pins and strings all leading to her and stuff.

And either he was right about the medication or he’s just really damn good at forcing himself to fall asleep, but one way or another, Ouma finds that the next thing he knows is that he’s awaking to cheers of some kind and the lights are flickering back on— no, wait, they weren’t, Kiibo just exploded on screen and that was super bright so—

...Kiibo just exploded on screen. Alright. That was fine.

(well it sort of made sense that if anyone blew up, it was kiibo, he reasoned, and some memory in the back of his mind goes something along the lines of the creator of the original _danganronpa_ saying something like “in the bad end, fukawa died because she blew up or whatever” which is weird, but ouma’s mind is cloudier than any goldfish’s tank so who cared)

“What happened?” He asks drowsily when Momota takes a breath from his cheers, and the other boy glances down at him.

“You finally woke up, huh?” He says, but Ouma’s not really in the mood for that so Momota hurries on. “They found some sort of loophole so— they all won! Except for Shirogane. And except for Kiibo. So not ‘them all’ I guess, but, oh my _fucking God.”_ He laughs. “They all made it, without needing to do a sacrifice or whatever the shit! They killed Shirogane!” A pause. “Okay, no they didn’t, but you _get it.”_

Ouma doesn’t understand why Momota’s so happy that their friends will never wake up, never speak to them again, never never never do a lot of things again, but maybe the whole ‘virtual reality’ thing was still working out the kinks in Momota’s head, and he was just happy that they weren’t dead, weren’t fake dead.

Or maybe, something points out in the back of his mind, Momota was a regular person who was feeling regular emotions for some regular winning participants of a regular killing game. And you were being selfish because your _beloved Saihara_ isn’t going to see you as anything other than six feet under, hmm?

...like anything about Momota was ‘regular’.

Ouma blinks as the ceiling of the lobby opens up and the lights turn on for real this time just as Saihara (and company) pull themselves out of the rubble, releasing bucket upon bucket of confetti as nurses around Ouma shake hands and congratulate each other on yet another successful season. He picks a piece of confetti from his head and looks at it, then looks at some of the walking dead who _aren’t_ Momota.

Akamatsu isn’t smiling. Tenko isn’t smiling.

Maybe Ouma isn’t the only selfish one there, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the support that's come in so far, it really means a lot!
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos if you've enjoyed!


	3. unnecessary and adscititious rendezvous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ouma has important meetings.

It’s probably two in the morning, three or five depending on just how long he’s been listening to the scratches of an old-fashioned ink pen to a folder full of paper, clean or scribbled over with an assortment of rainbow-hued arrow marks and fragmented paragraphs as pens ran out and markers dried up. Considering how the last wave of drowsiness just came and went on its merry way, Ouma bets on the number three, and hums with bland satisfaction when the nearby clock reads ten minutes before three. Not quite it, but close enough.

It’s a good place to take a break as any, though, so he does - quickly caps the pen and grabs his door keys from underneath a pile of junk, before finding himself strolling out to the school while a crescent moon watched from behind the steel bars. If the cage wasn’t there, the moon would be frowning with its current position - which is really odd, he thinks for a second, before figuring out why and entwining his hands behind his back - but luckily, very unluckily, the cage hasn’t disappeared. So the moonlight is broken up into odd squares and shapes along the overgrown expanse of the grounds.

What an idyllic thought. He blinks - it might not be so good to get distracted, even if he’s been steadily noting the tendency for it. Nighttime, like any other time of the day, is dangerous. But especially so, with the cover of darkness and its giant catbox. Though it would take a calling card and perhaps some idiocy on one’s part to fall victim to a murder at this time, since otherwise, everyone is usually asleep around now. Ouma smiles for a split-second as he randomly marks himself an exception to the human cycle of sleep, more likely to die from sleep exhaustion or cardiac arrest arising from that over any real murder. Which, even then, would not be a good thing, because murder scenes are always easily tampered with under the right circumstances.

His head whirls with this never-ending stream, weighing for perhaps the fifth time the pros and cons of taking any actions related to murder in the middle of the night - he finds himself a bit thankful when he reaches the cafeteria, one hand resting lightly on the door. But not too thankful. The lights are on, shining through a thin gap underneath, and one can never be too careful or too certain of anything right now—

A chair creaks, quietly. Soft, only a smidge alarmed - “Is someone out there?”

One blink, two blinks. A ghost of a smile, plastic-printed - Ouma lightly raps his knuckles on the door, even if courtesy is somewhat dead. “Just me. Knock knock!”

He waits, three four five, before opening the door in a bold fashion. One large step in, the cafeteria lights sting his eyes, but he grins and pretends he isn’t momentarily blind from the sudden transition while trying to focus on the vague blue figure seated to the right of the room. Another step in, the silhouettes begin to come together, and he manages to make out a plain smile among a startling heap of thread and fabric.

“Good morning, Shirogane!”

“Ah, good morning…” She echoes back, sleepily, before a quaint pause and a fair bit of blinking. “W-Wait, it’s already morning?”

“Nope!” He chirps loudly, keeps grinning, arms crossed casually behind his head. Shirogane exhales a great sigh, unfortunately not in bemusement - her shoulders slump a bit, one hand resting over her heart as she glances down and over the mess of clothes that have piled up on the table and fallen around her chair.

“—That’s a relief. I got worried for a moment there.” Her eyes flitter back over him with a faint but predictable disapproval. “Did you really have to lie about the time, Ouma?”

“I wouldn’t be a liar if I didn’t, right?”

“But something as small as that…” 

“What better to lie about than something you’d never expect me to? Granted, I still lie about everything anyway.”

She sighs again, shaking her head - reversed, with bemusement. Her face is still oh so very kind, the plain smile shaken only by the slightest into something uneasy. It’s a surprise to see she’s still trying to smile at him, nonetheless. Not a lot of people even try to do that anymore, though either way, who would in a killing game? “I don’t think lying so often is such a good thing… No one will believe you one day.” She hesitates - “Isn’t that a bad thing to you?”

“I guess—” Pause, halt, right there. A point to determine the tone, “But no one believes in me anyway, so does it matter?” 

Her expression morphs into something indiscernible. Well, if he looked closely, maybe he could decipher it - “But—” 

Before that, before anything, Ouma just laughs like the sun came out and bears don’t exist. What a pleasant sound. It spikes the air, but smoothly - in contrast to the clattering noise in his head, pebbles shaking along the silent turn of the cogs. Moving on and on.

“You know, it’s weird that you’re taking my words at face-value. Were you always that trusting of others, Shirogane? Maybe it’s just me, but I figured you knew not to do that.”

Understandably, a floored sort of puzzlement just casts itself across her face. Whatever word or retort she had in mind for the moment, happily, it seems to have forgotten itself. So instead she stares a little, small lashes fluttering. There’s a tiny frown, simple enough to change with a word if anyone tried. “…With that sort of tone, it feels like a compliment… but, not?”

“Who knows now?” The grin is at its strongest. Could he possibly stretch it further, so that he becomes a cheshire cat? No, that’s unnecessary - for now.

Charging ahead, one step, two steps - scooping up the sands of voice and time and letting the river flow past, without pause. It’s a horribly sloppy attempt, but Ouma puts all mental effort into visibly casting his attention onto the chaotic arrangement of chalk and thread mixed with the scraps of hemstitched acrylic littered about. “—Anyway, isn’t it pretty late? Shouldn’t you be asleep like everyone else?”

Her brows furrow a bit, eyes flickering between Ouma and her work indecisively. “I should be, but… ah, well.”

Grimly, quietly, she organizes everything, dropping emptied spools into a clear pouch on the side. An air of exhaustion, seamless like art. “I suppose there isn’t any point in hiding things from you, is there?”

He hums a simple, cheerful note, and lets his hands finally fall back to his sides. “That depends. But it’s true that hiding things is pointless to me - I could find almost anything I wanted, if I really tried. Like Monokuma’s puppeteer, for example!”

A glance back, where something sparkles - a peculiar glee of the tiniest degree, flickering across the glass. “That’s another lie, isn’t it.”

“Oh—maybe.”

“That’s how it is after all, huh?” Humored still, although it’s rapidly fading now - Shirogane turns her head back to the clothes, focusing on them a bit proper. Her hand digs under one crumpled pile to pull out a heavy-looking scissor, gleaming much too brightly until it’s thankfully packed away into a small bag on the floor. “To answer your question - this might seem quite obvious, since my talent is cosplaying, but I love to sew things. Making clothes and designs for different characters—it helps me relax, when I get into it.”

“Hmmmm. I think I get it.” A drop of hesitance, weighing worth and possibility. With a carefree shrug, a mental action really, Ouma sits on the nearest chair that isn’t partly cluttered with recyclable bags of half-finished shirts and spare packets of buttons and sequins. “So you’re trying to forget we’re stuck in a murder fest by getting engrossed in your little hobby - and in the middle of the night too! That’s really careless of you, don’t you think?”

“It isn’t just a  _ hobby. _ ” Shirogane frowns, though her hands falter in their motions. “But, well - I suppose it does look dangerous, sewing all by myself right now.”

“Right, right! What if someone creeped up on you tonight and stuck a knife through your heart, all too suddenly and brutally like that?” The boy imitates and exaggerates shock and fright, a stage show that comes almost disgustingly easily. Though what’s really surprising and frightening here, if he had to say as much, would be himself - his words are delicate and sweet like castella, even though something in his mouth sours at the mere image he crafted. It would be nice if no one dies tomorrow, or ever, but the death toll hasn’t stop after Amami and Akamatsu. A thought is a thought.

With perfect timing, Shirogane shudders. It’s only a minute comfort that she can see what he sees, the gravity of this macabre nonsense, even a portion of it. “That’s… That’s truly worrisome, but… even so, Ouma. This is my life work. I can never stop creating. Absolutely never.” Her frown melts, her lips quirking back into a smile. How is it so easy for her to do that? “So of course, the more dangerous it gets, the more I’d want to take my mind off things by sewing - as illogical as that is, I suppose.”

“I never said you should completely stop having fun with your hobby now,” he idly notes in return, ultimately reaching the moonlit curve of a cheshire after all. “You just don’t have to be doing it out  _ here _ , when you could be in your room - which has a nice and safe lock to protect you from wannabe murderers. —Really, what are you  _ doing _ out here?”

For a split-second, he observes the serenity on her face freezing into a pure, crystalline white. And of course, it seems like the monkey at the typewriter has finally begun the first line of Hamlet - it looks so very much like that, for an instance, Ouma catching something that is clearly a big red flag on this gameboard. But, but—the ice melts much too quickly, and the girl nods in a humble, considerate sort of manner.

“Certainly. But as you can see, I can make quite the mess here.” Her arms gesture about, to the still-unpacked array. “And it’s something of a personal preference, but I like to work at long tables like these. It makes it easier to keep track of where everything is. My room doesn’t have such a big desk to work with, so… that’s the only reason, really.”

“ _Ehhh,_ is that _really_ it?” He can’t help the disappointment that immediately follows, though he manages to make it look like a childish sort of feeling with an irritable huff of air - instead of the type of disappointment that comes from failing to nail a giant clue, or what he nearly assumed was a giant arrow sign finally pointing straight towards the mastermind. Of course it wouldn’t be that simple. It’s just ridiculous.

Then again, Shirogane as the sole person behind every single string - it’s not as easy to imagine as it is for the others, who at least hinted at a more solid possibility. Her demeanor so far has consistently been like a normal person’s, as opposed to someone engaging in a twisted kind of entertainment. —If she really is the mastermind despite nearly everything saying otherwise, Ouma thought with a pout, he might have to stop drinking panta forever.

“—And here I thought I was going to discover your biggest, darkest secret! Ahh, I guess I can’t blackmail you into doing anything dirty just yet…”

“B-Blackmail?!” Her eyes go wide as saucers. “Into what?”

Ouma taps a finger on his lips, thoughtful and theatrical with each heartbeat - it feels wonderfully normal to do, a most sunny cue. Or is it just a habit unconsciously, deeply learned? “Into… fixing my clothes, of course!” Amusement, stretching sharply out. “Just kidding. I don’t need you to do anything for me.”

Shirogane stares speechlessly, her eyes slowly looking all over him. “…A-Are you sure? Your clothes… do look a bit tattered, and I certainly don’t mind mending them if you want—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. I quite like them, even if they are just weird rags.”

“Oh.” She blinks a couple of times, before the tension quickly evaporates from her shoulders. Almost too quickly. "I wouldn’t call them weird or rags, but that’s good to know.”

His head tilts in curiosity, with a low hum. “Why do you think so?” She just giggles gently in response. 

“It’s odd to say, but I think your clothes really fit you. That’s all.”

.

 

There’s a feeling that Ouma isn’t quite sure of that makes itself known after the final trial, bordering on things that can be simplified into ‘tired’ as it weighs on his eyes. He knows, logically, that he should be getting more out of a reaction to the finale of the killing game - hip hip hooray and stuff - but the only thing that he can focus on is the fact that the nurses really didn’t do  _ all  _ that good of a job of sweeping the floor, because there’s still some confetti scattered around some of the corners, clumped up in dirty balls of disgusting color.

All that being said, the day after it’s over, Ouma finds himself out in the halls - not with Momota, not this time, for he can push the wheels on his own at this point without all too much trouble and that fact brings him more than a little bit of pride. It’s as sterile as ever, even with the day old confetti, save now for the fact that the nurses and doctors grin at him wider than ever. Like there’s some sort of reward that he deserves, now that the winners have been decided and he’s obviously  _ not  _ one of them.

He smiles back, though. He thought that they were over things like this at this point, but, whatever.

Escapades with Momota have confirmed nearly every room like a tick mark under Ouma’s belt, which is why he’s able to notice that people flirt in and out of a previously empty room more frequently than they had beforehand. Which was, to say, not at all, so any improvement at all forms some sort of an accomplishment. Squeaky wheels roll to a stop outside of the room, and he stares at the sign for a moment. The kanji reads out ‘distant’ and ‘hope’, after all, and he can piece the fragments of memory in his mind better than originally anticipated. A pleasant enough thing, he guesses, though maybe not.

It takes pretty not-long in order to finish weighing the pros and cons of going right in. The person (if that) inside probably has mixed feelings on him but, well, everything in a killing game seemed to be a two-way street in the first place.

But who was he kidding - the best thing about hitting rock bottom was that there was nowhere to go but up, right? That’s how the saying went, and Ouma may not have a lot going for him but he’ll cling to what he can. And if believing in naive sayings was gonna help - then, well.

He rolls in the next time a nurse opens the door, and either they don’t notice or they don’t care because they don’t throw a huge fit when he does it. Good, he thinks, and then takes it back immediately when he sees the figure on the bed.

Of course Ouma recognizes him (even if he hadn’t, there’s the name on the door), for who hasn’t heard of Yuuki, especially when he’s the poster boy of  _ Danganronpa  _ and not a day would go by where the official site wouldn’t display some rendition of him or another. Not like Ouma paid attention to the details back then, back now, but metallic sheen on ‘Kiibo’s’ skin or not, he can understand it all well enough, even if his memories still continue to prove more elusive than any goldfish. Kudos to engineers and inventors and all that - though maybe don’t include Iruma in that count.

Still, it’s more than a little jarring to see wires coming out of boney arms that have either been toned out by photoshop or covered in metal plating in other timelines. Ouma swallows.

“Curious,” is something he apparently says without thinking, because then the person in the bed blinks up at Ouma and raises his head.

“I think the only curious person in this room is  _ you.”  _ Yuuki says, and even though Kiibo’s voice was never that staticky nor robotic in the first place, the smoothness of a bit more humane voice definitely is noted. “Whether it be that you’re curious about what’s going on here, or if you’re out of place and you’re describing your out-of-placeness as curious. Not me.”

“I’ve been in this place longer than you have.” Ouma defaults to lying faster than he should when he’s not in a killing game. Yuuki laughs.

“Once again, I’m sorry to say I’ve been here a good portion of my life.” He motions with a vague wave of his hand, wires trailing behind him as the nurse who had been dealing with him steps out of the room and closes the door behind them. That privacy was appreciated. “Whether it be in a simulation or on this bed. So,  _ I’m  _ the ‘Super High-School Level’...uh. What would you call it. Sleeper? I’m asleep so much, after all. Or maybe patient?”

He’s attempting humor, or at the very least, attempting a sense of normalcy, and Ouma’s almost tempted to give it to him. Almost.

“So you died in the simulation, huh!” Ouma whistles loudly. “Seems like kind of a waste. You were so entirely close to endgaming and all that. Would’ve won that ultimate experience had you not just -” He mimes an explosion, accompanied with awkward noises that a little kid would’ve made to imitate a fart. “- right? So then...why’d you do that? Kinda dumb, in my opinion.”

Yuuki’s smile dies on his lips (it’s still odd seeing them made out of flesh, still odd) and his eyes trail off to somewhere behind Ouma, where the broken clock would have been had they been in Ouma’s room and not here. “It was a sacrifice for their sake. Otherwise, Harukawa wouldn’t have won. She’d have needlessly sacrificed herself and be here with us right now, instead of in  _ there _ .” It’s said so airily, so dreamily, that Ouma can’t help but curl his lip in tired disgust. He doesn’t know what he expected.

“Oh, what a  _ noble  _ hero you are,” he sneers, “trapping a girl inside her own head for the rest of her life, and letting  _ that  _ life be broadcasted on live television! Truly, what a hope! What  _ utter  _ perfection! Such selflessness! Truly, I applaud you.”

“Well, now you’re just making it sound  _ mean.”  _ Yuuki sighs.

“Pray tell, how am I supposed to make it sound?” Ouma leans back in his chair, fingers tracing the plastic outline of the button on his armrest, the button that would call the nurse should he ever,  _ ever  _ need assistance. Which, of course, would be never. In case anybody had been wondering. “If you’ve got a better choice of words, then, I’m  _ all ears.  _ I’m not going anywhere.”

“I could call a nurse on you, if you harass me too much.” It delights him (scarily) now that it’s easy to make the once-was Kiibo squirm without even really trying, and for a moment, Ouma feels as if though they’re back in the game again. As if they’re back where he’s got the confidence of a false god to boost his ego.

“Oh, dearie me!” Ouma claps his hands together mockingly. “How  _ courageous  _ of  _ Yuuki  _ to do something like that! Mm, what with your name and all, I would have thought that you had a bit more of a backbone, right? Or, actually.” He gives pause. “Wasn’t there a news article or something once upon a time that you were becoming even  _ more  _ of a vegetable because of how much you did this?  _ Uwah,  _ Yuuki! How  _ pathetic!” _

Yuuki stares away from the ‘where the clock would have been’ space or a moment. “I had sort of hoped that outside of the game you were kinder, but apparently not.”

“And I had sort of hoped that you knew everything, but - apparently not! The infamous Yuuki isn’t nearly as great as things on the media say he is. Hmm.”

He’s just spouting out nonsense words at this point, as if that’ll make more sense at this point. If he can try and make lying a hobby versus a habit, maybe that’ll make things a little bit easier.

Yuuki doesn’t rise to the bait like Ouma thought he would, though, and heavily lined eyes glance away. “Say what you want.” He muses. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand what it’s like to be such a grand hope.”

“That sounded sickeningly cliche, I must say.”

“Says the person who organized a murder the way you did. You were cliche, in your own way.” 

Ouma leans back in his wheelchair, fingers tracing out the shape of his chin. Partway through the practice, he realizes that he can feel a blemish, a  _ pimple  _ on his chin, and he pauses temporarily. Well, it would make sense that his skin isn’t as perfect as it used to be, considering how he hadn’t exactly been taking good care of it, what with being stuck inside a simulation and all that. Negligence couldn’t really be helped on  _ that  _ account. 

“I think it was pretty cool, personally.” Ouma finally decides after several moments of silence. “Maybe you’re just jealous because you couldn’t see the murder happen yourself, hm? Were you sad when a body was discovered and you weren’t able to see how it unfolded out perfectly yourself, so you wouldn’t be able to bring hope to everyone?”

Yuuki is silent for several moments, to the point where Ouma thinks he’ll need to poke another joke at the (robot? person?) to get him going, but then he says, “It’s not like I was exactly  _ aware  _ of what was happening. During the game. I thought I really was Kiibo, a robot made by Professor Iidabashi. Not…” He trails off and looks at his hands in vague befuddlement. “...Yeah.”

Ouma doesn’t like the genuinity in Yuuki’s voice, so he makes it fake. “Mm, I can’t believe  _ Yuuki,  _ the  _ posterboy of Danganronpa,  _ is feeling in such a way! Sympathy? Or even a touch of  _ regret?”  _ He claps his hands together a bit too hard, and winces at the sting. God, he was frail. He tucks the idea of working out back in the corner of his mind. “If only someone knew that ‘hope’ was having second thoughts! And here I was, even getting swayed onto your side...hm! Mm-hm!”

The glare Yuuki sends him is equal parts as venomous as the poison Harukawa sent soaring through his veins and as dreamy as (let’s not finish that thought, he decides, and pulls the brakes all too hurriedly) and Ouma loves every second of it. “I am ‘hope’.” says Yuuki, and the conviction in his voice sends shudders down Ouma’s spine.

“Puh- _ leeze!  _ Didn’t you watch the  _ Danganronpa  _ anime?” Among hours of doing nothing but breathing, Ouma watched it with Momota from underneath thin sheets, even if the astronaut thought he was asleep at the time. “They tried to play that whole ‘hope is evil too sometimes’ angle. So maybe you’re the kind of evil hope…?”

“That was a bad angle, and you know it.” Yuuki snorts, the faintest traces of a scowl beginning to grace his face. “And that was fiction. This is reality.”

“So, the game. The one that just happened. Was that reality or fiction?” Ouma prompts, and Yuuki’s scowl only deepens. Ouma rubs his pimple. A comforting imperfection. “I mean, if it was just fiction then your whole hope thing is just a lie, right? You can only be a beacon of hope so many times before the audience starts getting bored of it, after all, and you’ve been hitting it up quite a few times now.”

“It was real enough.” Yuuki cuts in. “I was a better hope than you were a lie.”

“Eh, doubt it.” Ouma snorts. “Besides, this conversation is kinda worthless. We can’t actually  _ be—” _

“No.” There’s a finality in Yuuki’s voice that gives Ouma a bit of pause, and he stops rubbing his pimple. “I don’t think you understand how much of a hope I really  _ am.  _ I’m the reason a lot of people get up in the morning.”

“Modest!”

“Seriously. Like, depression is a terrible thing, right? Or just...being down in general. Sometimes it’s not easy to get up in the morning. But then you might think ‘oh, my favorite show is airing today’ or ‘oh, I can see Yuuki today’ and even if it’s something small...that can get you going, right? Maybe not me in particular, but just an effect of ‘hope’ in general. You  _ hope _ to have a good day, you  _ hope  _ to be happy. You  _ hope  _ for me.”

Ouma stares at him while Yuuki looks all smug. “Well, so many people have a perfect reality nowadays that I don’t think they care much for you,” is what he finally settles on, and Yuuki shrugs.

“If they have hope, then they care about me.”

The bad taste in Ouma’s mouth only increases the longer he looks at once-was-Kiibo, and after a few moment’s pause, he backs his wheelchair out of the room and decides to look for another escape route.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idaate: This chapter can be summarized as Shirogane being like "ha ha swag clothes" and Kiibo/Yuuki being like "HI im komaeda i guess"
> 
> elisye: i continue to not know what the heck im doing whEEZES

**Author's Note:**

> elisye: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ i have no idea what im doing send help
> 
> idaate: "hey mocha how come your mom let you write TWO virtual reality aus"
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos if you enjoyed! It was super fun writing this, and there will be more to come!


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